Final Flight
by Zeff N Company
Summary: It was all that they had left, all that would go on long after they were gone. And it was that music that talked to them, spurring them forward with soft prompts in what to do, what to say… All they had to do…was listen.


Inspired by Fábio Moon's _Cortina_.

_

* * *

Her hand was on his, ceasing any further move against her. He knew how easy it would be to just knock that hand away – how much easier it had become in the short nights that passed…_

_He let her hand stay, but his eyes refused to look at what she directed him to. She let him be, as she continued to gaze out across the waters with a wistful expression. In the distance, a large gray wing arched and beat against the air, and she watched it while there was enough light to._

"_So beautiful," she whispered. "Like an angel…"_

* * *

"You're a little far from home, aren't you Galbadian?"

The hunter remembered a time before, when his sister spoke of the beauty in those who could fly; those who resembled the heavenly hosts. She had always admired them from afar, never having been able to actually meet one.

Not like he was now; pity there was no real beauty here to look at.

Unkempt hair that was once golden was now dulled by dusty filth, and a face that would've been cherubic was smudged with dirt, leaving the visage of a sly trickster more than a pure being. Perhaps he had been well-built once, when he was able to eat, but now he was so thin his ribs showed. He still had some of his muscle tone, but that too was starting to recede away from his starved frame. All that remained clear and bright about him was his eyes – a pair of bright blue-green marbles that beheld an intelligent spark.

It was those eyes that caught his attention the most; aside from the wing, of course.

He had always known them to have wings of many shades, but always only one wing, always feathered like a mighty bird's, and always sprouting from behind the right shoulder. This one was atypical, for his lone wing arched from his left shoulder, and instead of feathers, dark leathery skin stretched over bones in a manner not unlike a bat…or a demon.

There was just nothing angelic about this man at all.

And though he wondered briefly what his sister would have made of this discovery, he did not allow himself to dwell on it for too long. Instead, in the now, he scowled openly, glaring darkly through his visor at the slight form that swaggered before him.

"I could say the same to you, Midgardian."

The winged one was strangely silent, eyes so blank they seemed dead. Then, at last, he chuckled lowly, his wing twitching in what seemed agreement. "What_ever_ gave me away…?"

And then, as quickly as he was addressed, he was ignored once more; the man with his one wing turned and walked away, back into the shadowy depths of the ruined building – the same building that protected them from the creatures waiting outside; the same building the creatures had them trapped in.

"Well, even he's not stupid enough to come here after a bounty."

The hunter went from wariness to puzzlement in a second, as he could only stare in open question at his temporary roommate. Said roommate never noticed him as he continued to speak.

"Probably just lost his hideout to the drones outside, don't you think? Lost it, and then got split from any support his fellow ground-walkers could give him. Poor guy; it's no fun to get stranded like this…"

"Not that I care," the hunter broke in quietly, "but you realize you're talking to half a kid's boot?"

"This isn't just any boot," – the winged man lifted it for a moment – "it used to be mine." – Down it went again.

"…you've been stuck in this damned place one minute too long."

"Are you suggesting something?" Up came half a boot again, as the blond suddenly spoke to it very directly, and very obviously. "Is he suggesting something? What? You think he'd rather I talk to him instead of you? And you're okay with that? Oh fine, very well, but when you're all lonely and smelly in a dark gloomy corner while I'm talking to him instead of you, don't come crying to me."

The hunter scoffed loudly, reflexively tapping the underside of his visor with the pat of his thumb as he remarked: "Are all you Midgardians mental cases?"

"Sure, just on widely differing levels," the winged man answered carelessly, already tossing his previous chatting partner to hit the far wall with a dull "thud". "Are all you Galbadians psychopaths?"

The hunter stiffened; he did not say a word, but his entire body language was aggressive and furious; squared shoulders and rigid movements, even the bared teeth were demanding that the other take his words back. The recipient of the message never respected it, his own body relaxing further, as though inviting the other to go ahead and take a shot at him.

A fight was itching to happen here, between two different races that had nothing but blood and grief in their shared history. It was a fight that could happen so very easily…but didn't.

The hunter turned away first, sitting with his back to the other as he stared out at the swarms of inky black monsters that prowled the grounds below. His helmet never left his head, his visor never raised from his eyes, and his gun never left his hand. The other paused, surprised at this sudden turn of events and perhaps a little uncertain of what to do next; finally, he turned away as well. He, too, watched the creatures below, though from a different direction.

"…we're not psychopaths."

At the soft protest, the winged man laughed before he could stop himself. Sneering sardonically, he glared at the hunter's back. "Really, now… Tell me, then: why did I have to grow up watching you wingless maniacs hunt down my friends and family? Is there some twisted reasoning for wanting us dead so bad, _great one_?"

When no answer came promptly enough, he continued to rant.

"Oh wait, let me guess – this is going to be _rich_… You're trying to be the superior race by eliminating all competition? Some hobo with a hood told you we were the devil's spawn and promised holy rewards if you killed us all?"

"We had nothing against you," the hunter answered at last. "We never did. We just needed your wings."

"And what _for_?" the blond countered sharply. "Trophies? You take them from us for the sake of self-glory?"

"_No_," the hunter answered tersely, grateful for the helmet that masked his vulnerable self in that moment. "_Medicine_."

_

* * *

He could see them from where he was; they, on the other hand, didn't so much as notice him._

_They were across the river – a pair of youngsters whose wings had strengthened enough to support them. The older one was doing consecutive back flips in the air, __several stray bits of fluffy down scattering as they were shaken loose. Still sitting on the edge of his perch, the younger seemed reluctant to test his ability – he seemed validated, for his wing was a little unusual; he couldn't really see what was wrong with it from this distance, but it just looked…odd._

_No matter; odd wings would properly taste the same as regular ones._

_Struggling, he hefted the crossbow in his too small hands up, forcing it to rest on his shoulder as he took aim. He just needed one of them – one of their wings. Maybe even just a little piece; if he could just get it before the hunters noticed their weapon was missing…_

_He heard her approach before she called his name. He refused to move, though his shoulder was aching from the weight it bore. He was this close – he just needed to-_

"… _Please, don't."_

_Her hand was on his, ceasing any further move against her. He knew how easy it would be to just knock that hand away – how much easier it had become in the short nights that passed… He knew what had caused her such weakness, but he did not know why she was stopping him from making it go away._

"_They won't give me any," he explained at last, so frustrated and angry he was on the verge of tears. "They had plenty, but they said they wanted it for someone else. They said if I wanted some so bad, I could get it myself."_

_Her hand stayed, and he at last gave way to his exhaustion by allowing the crossbow to hit the ground. Her other hand smoothed back his disheveled bangs as she reassured him._

"_I don't need it, really. I may not even have the illness."_

_She was lying for his sake; even as young as he was, he could see that. He let her hand stay, but his eyes refused to look at what she directed him to. She let him be, as she continued to gaze out across the waters with a wistful expression. In the distance, a large gray wing arched and beat against the air, and she watched it while there was enough light to._

"_So beautiful," she whispered. "Like an angel…_

"_Let's just wait a little…alright? Maybe I'll get better."_

_He never answered her – not even a polite "okay" – but he honored her request to return the crossbow as soon as possible._

* * *

"When the Heartless came to this land, they brought with them a plague. No one knew for sure how it was transmitted, but those infected started to suffer from severe chest pains, then infrequent heart attacks. They couldn't eat, couldn't drink, and they always had to fight to breathe. By the time they died, they were grateful.

"But it only hit Galbadians, not Midgardians." There was a pause as the hunter finally looked back at his momentary acquaintance. "None of you were infected, even though you were but a stretch of water away. According to history, we found the truth by accident: by crushing the wing – not just the feathers – into powder, adding water and then drinking the mixture, one could be cured.

"Your wings carry special antibodies that actually protect you from the Heartless' plague; too many of us were dying, and ingesting those antibodies was our only way to survive.

"We were desperate; desperate people usually do foolish things."

Throughout, the winged one was silent, the revelation far beyond his own expectations. Finally, his wing curved behind him as he at last gave his comments to the issue. "…_shit_, you actually _eat_ our wings. That's just…sick."

This time, the hunter merely shrugged before delivering his response: "If it meant living, it meant getting used to it."

"…so this thing is actually worth a fortune," the blond mused quietly, staring at his wing with a new awe. Then he turned slightly, arching a brow at the other man. "… Why aren't you claiming it?"

"Many years ago, I would have taken the first shot I got at you and did everything to make it last," the hunter replied. "Now, though, I could care less."

"And why is that?"

"The one I wanted to save doesn't need it anymore."

There was a quiet "ah", and then no more words were exchanged. There was a crinkling sound, and then the hunter extended an opened ration packet to the other. It was a gesture that meant many things: it was an apology as much as it was a peace offering; perhaps, one could imagine, it was the smallest gift of friendship, from one lonely person to another.

The blond took it without ceremony and finished it within two seconds, discarding the wrapper callously alongside his forgotten boot.

"Did that help get your strength back?"

"Somewhat. Flying takes me a lot less power than you running, that's definite."

"Good." As though the jibe had never been passed, the hunter turned on the winged man once again. This time, his hand was what he offered.

"Can you fly us out of here?"

It was funny, really, how many turns the conversation had taken before this point, and how it still seemed to flow, to make sense to them. It was all just waiting their turn to talk, or looking for the right words to say.

And when one of them finally asked the question, it was then that the silence meant more than just momentary awkwardness; it was a slack, a leniency for careful thought. And while one hesitated, the silence that came with it opened up room to sounds you'd never hear otherwise.

It was almost like music, for the last dance of the night.

The winged man finally gave up attempting to make sense of the question on his own, and returned it at full-force: "What are you planning?"

"My gun has enough ammunition to fight back against the creatures' ranged attacks, but I will never outrun them in time. You could fly out of the city in a heartbeat, but you'd be a waiting target for every creature with a means. There is no way we can get ourselves out of this mess, but there's a chance we can get each other out of the city."

"A chance too close to nil. This close." The winged man parted his fingers ever so slightly to emphasize his point.

"It's still a chance, and we should take it."

"Why? You want to kill yourself?" the blond countered with a sneer.

"No," the hunter answered firmly. "I want to _try_. It's only a matter of time before the Heartless get to us even from up here."

"So you want to rush and get over with it? Do it yourself," the winged man snapped in retort. "I've waited up here since Zack left… I can wait longer."

"But _I_ can't."

The hunter was on his feet, suddenly seeming larger than before as he regarded the lethal danger below them. When he spoke again, his tone was darker than before, perhaps even bitter.

"That was all she did – _wait_. If she had tried, she might've _lived_. But she chose to wait, and I chose to wait with her. I let myself _wait_…and in the end, I had to let her go, all the while knowing that I had just _stood there_ and _did nothing_.

"I'm _done_ with waiting."

When he turned on the other again, his voice was calmer when he represented his offer: "You've been stuck in this broken building for half your life, clinging to that chance that the Heartless would just quit and go away. But there are more of them every day; this world is dying, and they're not leaving. They never will.

"Aren't _you_ done waiting?"

The question gave way to more silence, which gave way to the music once more – the music of the last dance that only they could hear, not with their ears, but with their hearts. It was all that they had left, all that would go on long after they were gone. And it was that music that talked to them, spurring them forward with soft prompts in what to do, what to say…

All they had to do…was listen.

"…and if we don't make it, hero? What then?"

"We'll at least know we did something."

"Man, you Galbadians are full of shit…" the winged man drawled at last, his previous casual tone at last slipping back as he got to his feet. "…if this is what you really want…"

The music sped up.

Hand slapped into hand and squeezed tight.

"…_let's FLY!_"

There was a sudden shower of concrete that exploded outward, catching a few of the lesser Heartless unaware. Then, through that cloud, they burst forth and took to the skies. Despite how the years had been poor to him, the winged man still had enough strength – surprisingly – to bear his passenger along as he shot up and away from their previous refuge. Behind him was a loud rattle as gunfire flew, pegging the creatures left and right before any could make sense of the situation.

For a while, that was good enough – that was proof that they stood a chance, that they just might make it. It was all just about good enough, and it spurred them to keep it up, to do better.

To well and truly fly…

A long thin shot lit through the air, barely grazing a leathery tip in passing. On the ground, stronger Heartless were taking the frontlines, leaving the now useless ground combatants to serve as their shields against more bullets.

The big guns had arrived.

"…we're in for it now," the blond mused, looking back at the ones they were escaping from. "…think you can handle this many?"

"…well," the hunter admitted, his gun hand knocking his helmet back into place. "Might be tough if one more shows up."

"Then let's hope that one doesn't show up."

"What…you don't trust me to take care of it?"

The dialogue was given no chance to finish, as more beams sailed toward them without letting up. The wing arched and flapped as the one who bore it tried to weave, all without getting his passenger caught in any crossfire. Behind him, the persistent rattling was fast becoming a comfort – it indicated that his back was still being watched.

Perhaps he had gotten careless; perhaps not. There were just too many things to avoid at once, that something had been bound to happen. It had all been a matter of where, and when.

The shot took him from behind, burning a clean line through his lower torso. A scream ripped right out of his throat – had the other cried out as well? Had he been hit? – before the wing went limp and sent them dropping like rocks toward the gleefully waiting predators below them.

They never reached that fate.

It took a sheer force of will to snatch them away from those greedy claws, and another round of gunfire to keep them at bay. He was hurting – there was a fire burning him alive from the inside out – and it was taking him all his willpower to keep airborne, to stay the course…

It would have been so much easier if he had only himself to answer to – so much easier to tell himself that it was okay to quit, that he was done fighting; it would have been so easy to forgive himself for giving up.

But it was not himself he had to answer to; it was the one that clamped onto his arm with a vice grip, that continued to watch his back with cover fire. If he failed here, it would be to that one that he answered to, and that one, in turn, would have to account for any mishaps on his part.

It was an annoyance, but as long as they had that silent contract, they would keep it. As long as one had to answer to the other, they knew – they both knew – that they were being depended on.

That giving up…was _not_ okay.

They were almost there, now… Just that bit more, and they would have done it.

That was when the rattle stopped. And when the winged man looked down, a hand was lifted into his view.

In that hand was a live grenade.

The hand slackened. The grenade fell.

With one last, final explosion to announce their departure, they were out…

Pass the last building…across the riverbank…

Across a river that no longer held life…

The landing was awkward, as they crashed heavily into the hard ground that was once green with new grass. There they lay, still and silent save for the shuddering of pained breaths.

A torn wing moved, arched painfully, before the blond raised his head and looked back at the other. He pulled at his arm…

…the other released immediately with no resistance.

And the winged man paused, staring at the other, at the clayey earth that was darkening to reddish brown beneath them. Reaching out, he shook at a shoulder for a response. None was given.

"…asleep already…huh…too bad…" he paused to smirk. "Was gonna ask if you were up for round two…"

That hand moved on, taking hold of the helmet and pulling it off. He released it to roll down the bank – heard it drop into the river with a dull "splash" – as he finally saw what the hunter looked like.

A brunet his age, with a disheveled head of bronze. A face that must have once been innocent had been hardened by time and experience, leaving unforgiving lines that boldly marked out the face of a warrior. Between shut eyes was a long scar that cut diagonal from the right eyebrow to the left cheekbone, and he took a moment to just admire it for its mystery.

"… Never got your name there, Galbadian…" he mused quietly, his hand reluctant to leave that dark line. "…then again… I never gave mine…"

The fire was smoldering, that all that remained was but a dull aching that seemed distant and far away. The music of before seemed but a whirl of noise now, yet he no longer remembered her tune…

…all they had was that last dance of the night, that one moment where they had decided to cast all their chipped tokens down to life's table game.

He felt tired, ready to rest for as long as he had ever wanted. Already, his vision was fading, preparing for him to just stop altogether. Still, he kept staring at the face of the one he never really knew, wondering why, suddenly, the other was smiling like that.

Wondering why it mattered at all.

Then there was nothing left to see; his wing flopped like a deadweight and stilled.

"… Goodnight, then…"

_

* * *

He had never been this close before; it surprised him how he continued to go unnoticed by his quarry like this._

_One youngster was gone – perhaps the hunters beat him to it – and all that was left was the misshapen Midgardian with the odd wing._

_He took aim now, glaring down the line of the crossbow that was still too heavy for him. His eye bore into the small pale figure that was hunched there, his strange wing curling over his head as though protecting him._

_He looked like he was crying._

_He stayed there, staring down the sight, watching the little winged boy that was curled up with his wing over his head. He did not notice the first drop of rain, or the next. He knelt there with the crossbow resting atop his shoulder, and never stopped watching the boy that looked so very lonely._

_Finally, he lowered the crossbow, his eyes staring at the huddled form that refused to take shelter._

_Slowly, quietly, he turned and walked away._

* * *

"… _Hey, Sis. I don't know if you can hear me…_

"_I guess… I just wanted to let you know…_

"_I met a kid that could've been an angel._

"_You were right about one thing:_

"_Flying…really _does_ feel good."_


End file.
